


Retrofit Puzzle

by XtaticPearl



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sense8 (TV) Fusion, Found Family, Friendship, If any do come up down the line they will be mentioned at the beginning of the chapter, Inspired By Sense8, M/M, Minor Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Minor Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Past Rumiko Fujikawa/Tony Stark, Platonic Life Partners, Team Dynamics, Trans Male Character, tags will be added as story progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 08:55:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10987581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XtaticPearl/pseuds/XtaticPearl
Summary: When eight strangers stumble upon a common bond of sensation that allows them to live each other's lives in vivid detail, it brings down protected walls and builds protective fences around them. As they fight the hunt of a pharmaceutical giant, Hydra Corp, and an elusive ninth cluster fit, they figure out ways to make their new lives work as best as they can.





	Retrofit Puzzle

**Author's Note:**

> This is broadly inspired by Sense8 but the similarities might end at just that. I hope you guys have fun and that we have a great journey with this!

_No self-respecting man of science believes in miracles._

A bronze touched plaque sat on the back-wall of Tony's office with those words staring out from it. It was older than him, older than his office, but not older than the ghost of the man who created that eyesore.

"Happy birthday, dad," Tony Stark, the 34 year old CEO of Stark Industries, saluted a glass of whiskey to the plaque and shot back the amber poison without a flinch. The neon glimmer of a rushing night filtered through the wall-to-floor windows in the darkened office, highlighting the shadow of a genius slumped in a high chair. Tony placed the empty glass on his table and leaned back on his chair, meeting the plaque with a wry smile and dark eyes clouded with the past.

It had always bothered him as a child, when he managed to sneak past Mrs. Arbogast at the reception and camped out at his dad's office alone. Tony as a naive young boy, with pudgy fingers clutching at a toy wrench, had loved the idea of miracles. The tale of Jonah brought back to life by Elijah told softly by his mother during hushed nights floated around his mind with the tale of Jonah's miraculous existence despite the great fish told by Jarvis between lunch and nap time. There were too many Jonahs but all of them had been promised miracles and lived with them. Tony loved miracles; the idea of guardian angels, of multiplying meals, cured people, and unexpected victories, they fascinated his mind as he built circuits of science. So it bothered him when he saw the plaque in its shiny glory,and it bothered him when he could never ask his father about it. 

Eventually he outgrew it, the cold facts of growth building over the warm imagining of miracles. Tony had graduated from circuits to weapons, from haphazard tablecloth capes to tailored suits, and had worn the large shoes left empty after his father's death. A man of science, a monger of death, a messiah of money - the Stark legacy had grown with Tony.

Yet, he sat in a darkened room with a dead plaque taunting him on a ghost's birthday. Tony didn't believe in miracles, anybody would tell you that, but that didn't mean he didn't hope for them. 

His phone buzzed, breaking his self imposed misery, and Tony fished it out of his jacket.

"It's my plane, Pepper," he said as greeting, a tired drawl masked by a touch of casual indifference, "The whole point of it being  _my_ plane is that I can board it anytime I want."

"Not if you don't want Colonel Rhodes marching into your office and dragging you by the collar, it isn't," Pepper Potts chimed back, a decade of being the young CEO's PA making her smart about her angles, "You're late by even your limits, Mr. Stark."

"I'm limitless, Ms. Potts," Tony quipped back even as he stood from his chair with the grace of an alcoholic hardly swayed by a mere couple of drinks, "Tell Hogan to be ready. I'll be down in 2."

"He's been ready for 60," Pepper commented before smoothing over, "Have a good flight, Mr. Stark."

"Have a good evening, Ms. Potts," Tony quirked a small grin as he ended the call, dropping the phone back into his jacket and picking up a stash of blueberry for the ride before striding across the office towards the door. As he opened the door to walk out, he paused and turned slightly to give the plaque one last look.

"Cheers to miracles, old man," he chuckled a tad bitterly in farewell to the ornate preaching and shut the door behind him as he left.

Tony Stark didn't believe in miracles, despite his hope, but he also wondered if he believed himself to be a self-respecting man, no matter how much he lived in science.

It wasn't surprising then that he was going out once again to campaign for war in weapons designed for peace.

\-----

Riley eyed the new barista as she floundered over a particularly nasty customer's order. 

There were three people ahead of him and the hungover looking redneck was getting on everybody's nerves. Coffee was a sacred fuel for those who hated Monday mornings, and anyone who interfered with that got a direct entry into people's kill list. It didn't help that the redneck was clearly a Starbucks guy now bossing around in a cafe that didn't name their cups in ventis, large, or other misleading terms. 

"Pal, you mind moving on?" Riley called out, stuffing one hand in his USAF hoodie and leaning away from the line, "We all got places to get to."

"You got a problem, jackass?" the guy turned around his face pinched in a scowl even though the largest pair of sunglasses covered half of it. 

"Yeah, and it looks like you," Riley rolled his eyes, ignoring the nervous coughing of the the guy behind him, "Look man, just give your order and move. Let the nice barista do her job, she's got a line here."

"Why don't you -"

"Dude," the man in front of Riley wearing a grey sweatshirt interrupted the troublesome man and shot him the most fake grin Riley had seen, "you shit over the barista and the barista screws over your coffee. It's the rule. Don't fuck with her, or the nice man who wants to get his damn coffee on a damn Monday morning. There's no one here to impress with the jackass look. So shove off, get your damn coffee and get the hell out. Alright? Cheers."

The hungover guy looked flustered and spoiling for a fight but the manager jumped in and corralled him away from the barista who was now shooting furtive grins at the man ahead of Riley.

"Impressive," Riley snorted as he saw the man shoot her a charming grin, "Is this how you get your numbers now? Cussing out people for coffee?"

"Hey man, at least I've  _got_ numbers," the man, Riley's best friend for five years, grinned, "All you get is fake scribbles on tissues."

"Says you"

"Says the dry spell stretching your shower time," Sam Wilson laughed and Riley punched him in the shoulder lightly, "What, jealous of my charming style now?"

"If you can call  _that_ charming," Riley quipped back and Sam made a face at him before turning forward to get his order.

Sam Wilson had long learnt to expect miracles at the most unexpected turns of life. It might have been a result of being a pastor's son or having observed his childhood friends faltering through dangerous paths despite the same strength and skills as his own. His Ma surviving her car crash, his sister winning the guardianship of her son from her partner, his own escape from the wrong group he had once entered - all of it seemed like a series of miracles nudged his way from the universe. His entry into the PJs was his way of giving back to the universe the same in kind in many ways.

As a pararescueman who dived into cold nights, waded through angry waves, or rustled through unforgiving jungles looking for survivors to rescue, Sam had come to rely on miracles as his life and blood. Miracles were his day job. He traded them for his hours and they were also the result of every mission. 

Finding a quiet corner in  _Luke's Cage_ on a Monday morning was nothing short of a miracle either, and Sam took it with both hands as he slid into a booth with Riley sitting opposite to him.

"So," Riley sipped on his black coffee and eyed Sam over his cup, "About this Falcon Exo..."

"Oh c'mon," Sam groaned into his coffee, taking a long sip before frowning at his best friend, "We've been over this. It's a good chance, it's revolutionary, and we got picked out of a hundred others. Riley, man, don't flak out on me now."

"I'm just saying," Riley shrugged, "there's a difference between jumping head-first into madness and doing a - planned jump into it. This is actually flying, without a carrier to hold you."

"It's wings, Riley," Sam emphasized, "They're giving us literal wings to fly."

"Sure, alright, I get  _that_ , Human Redbull," Riley huffed, "but I'm just saying. Every revolutionary thing usually pays a price on its test subjects."

"Man, drink your coffee and quit going all horror novel at me," Sam rolled his eyes and winked at the barista who was eyeing them subtly from across.

"One of these days you're gonna actually understand the greatness of horror novels, Wilson," Riley shook his head dramatically and sputtered when Sam threw his balled up tissue at him.

"One of these days, you're gonna take a damn risk outside the job," Sam pointed at him, "and that will be a glorious day of your life, O'Donnell. It'll be a miracle, but glorious."

Riley rolled his eyes at Sam and shook his head when Sam finished his cup of coffee and went up to work his magic with the barista who still looked interested.

Sam believed in miracles, but sometimes he had to make them happen himself.

\---------

It was a glittering spectacle in Moscow's sky, and Natalia tilted her head upwards to feel the brisk breeze brush her face. The world was silent in its darkness and heaven looked like it had been lit up by hell's fires, as Romanova's daughter blew a cloud of frigid air into the unseen void. It was a small moment of peace for the spy born with war, and she took it in with the stale smell of burnt out cigars.

"Did you get the plans?" a smooth American voice rang out from behind her and she took one last peaceful breath before pulling out a small nondescript drive, holding it out in silence.

"Vanko will notice it gone by tomorrow morning," she spoke, no trace of her native Russian sounding in the clear English words, "Your man will do well to get out before he does."

"Sitwell knows what to do," the man with the eye-patch replied, taking the drive from her gloved hand, "You did a good job, Widow."

"Make your praise ring in my bank account and I'll accept it," she said, tilting her head to the side and looking at him over her shoulder, "There is the matter of the other American."

"We don't have a lock on him yet, but by the description, it looks like you had the rogue Hawkeye on your tail today," Nick Fury told her, pocketing the drive and staring out front into the dark space ahead, "Who gave him the mark or why is still...unknown."

"You mean, unidentified," Natalia scoffed lightly, turning her bright jade eyes up towards the sky, "Whoever it was, he was here to grab the same plans you have right now. You might want to hold on really tight if you want to get it across with you to the States."

"I think you'll find that we do our jobs quite well, Ms. Romanoff," he snorted, using her western name as he did when he wanted to try and establish control, "You're not the only one who can make miracles happen in this field."

"Miracles," Natalia smirked bitterly, her lethal lips painted in hues of blood and danger, "are for children, just as fickle myths as love. I don't work in miracles. I work in missions."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," Fury laughed and nodded in her direction, "See you later, Widow."

"Pray you don't, Nick," she quipped lightly and watched the fireworks fade as her client walked away with his bounty. She knew that she would get her payment for her victory on time and in full. Not many people dared to go back on their word with the famed Black Widow. Well, those who did weren't really alive to refute that claim anyway.

Across the bridge where Natalia Romanova stood in her jet black gown and a black hat covering her scarlet hair, a blond man pressed a finger to his ear.

"The plans are in, get the team out before the real Fury comes in," Clint Barton ordered, eyes still fixed on the still figure of the woman he had been sent out to outmaneuver, "Meet you at the checkpoint in 5."

When the comm died out, Clint breathed out and pulled his gloves tighter against the Russian night breeze. It was a risky play to try and hoodwink the Black Widow but Clint had always had fun playing hide and seek, even from his circus days. He wasn't opposed to taking a hit out but once in a while it was always good to take a sneakier way out. The face-morphing mask was like a Mission Impossible doodad but Clit knew that his client had hands in places that were dealing in cutting edge tech. He wished he had thrown in a deal for better hearing aids along with the payment, now that he thought about it. Maybe even one in purple.

Clint let his gaze linger on his opponent on the mission for another minute before turning around and walking away. He didn't believe in miracles, but getting away from the under the nose of the deadly Black Widow seemed like a qualifier to start with.

There was no point in testing those waters though, not with Clint's love for living till tomorrow.

\--------

Dr.Bruce Banner didn't hate his job per se, but he had not many pleasant things to say about his work environment. His lab assistant, a cocky 19 year old, told him on a night of drunken wisdom that he didn't like it mostly because of his father-in-law. Whom he worked for technically.

As the lead scientist for the military division that inconveniently had his wife's father in the higher ops, Bruce had accepted the talks of family gossip as a foregone cause years ago. It was one of the few prices to pay to be allowed to indulge in the one thing Bruce loved almost as much as his wife - gamma radiation. Even as a child shut in his room to avoid hearing his parents scream at each other, Bruce had been fascinated by the mysteries of science, and gamma radiation was a beautiful temptress with her potent value and precision demands. It was a gift to be able to work around raw energy as that, and Bruce was known to be as gifted as they came. 

Of course, Bruce considered himself equally cursed, but that was between him and his grudging therapist. And Betty, his wife. And Amadeus, his lab assistant. So not a lot of people, really.

Bruce had initially refused the job offer from General Ross, Betty's father and a stark reminder of Bruce's own dad, but the temptation of working miracles with the resources at his disposal had lured him in. Betty once told him that her peers, all skilled scientists themselves, tended to call him the Miracle Man in hushed circles. Bruce usually kissed her to hide his blush when she said such things but it did make him feel better about coming to work the next day though.

He wished Betty had passed him some similar compliment the previous night as he faced down Emil Blonsky, the archetype jock Bruce had once avoided in high school but couldn't avoid in a military facility.

"C'mon Banner," the blond behemoth of a man drawled with a mocking tone and a masked sneer, his body leaning towards potentially dangerous chemicals, as he almost towered over Bruce, "it's just the bar. All the lads are coming over. Join us, come mingle with the guys."

 _The guys_ usually were loud, obnoxious, entitled jerks who joined the military to play around with louder, more obnoxious weapons. Bruce knew the type quite well, and he had no intention of joining them on any night, especially never in a bar. He shot a quick glance towards the entrance of the lab, wishing someone would come in so that he could avoid Blonsky.

"I'm - uh - I have work," Bruce pushed his glasses up his nose and tried to move aside but Blonsky moved with him, effectively standing in his way again.

" _That_ you clearly do," the man snorted with a hinted meanness as he gazed around with a clear look of confused annoyance, "but you do that always anyway. Take a night off, c'mon."

"I'll have to get home, sorry," Bruce countered with as much dismissal as he could muster but Blonsky's smirk sharpened into an unkind sneer.

"Oh, I'm sure Dr. Ross won't mind," he winked like he was Bruce's friend and this was an inside joke, "I'm sure she has much...more things to keep her busy at night. With work, of course."

There clearly was no  _of course_ meant and Bruce knew enough to understand what the guy was insinuating. He felt his pulse spike and had to wrestle down his immediate flash of violent reaction, trying to remember his therapist's words. His episodes were comparatively fewer and never fun but they always made him feel exhausted for days, and his current medication was going only so far as to keep them in minimum control. Usually a familiar, trusted face helped but Amadeus was currently out for a coffee run and he couldn't call Betty at her lab, not with Blonsky right there to possibly mock him further. His fingers shook and his skin felt tight, itching to explode into something larger - large enough to hold his anger. He felt Blonsky edge in a bit and was on the verge of losing it when the door opened.

"Hey, Bruce, there you are - oh, Blonsky?" Leonard Samson, Bruce's colleague and friend faltered for a second when he took in the tableau in front of him but then recovered and carried on, walking towards them in sure steps. "Hey, Bruce, I was wondering if you could join me in my lab for a minute? There's this report I want your opinion on. Blonsky, do you mind?" Samson shot Blonsky a fake grin and edged him out of the way, placing a firm hand on Bruce's back, not quite touching, "That's a good man, thanks. Hey, I think Ross was looking for you on the grounds, by the way. Might wanna check it out. See you, soldier!"

Once Blonsky had left the lab with a barely there grunt, Samson steered Bruce out of his lab and walked beside him in silence as they passed through the short corridor stretch between their labs. It was a quick walk, even for men with short legs such as both of them, but it felt longer and harder for Bruce as he focused on keeping his steps straight and eyes from blurring. Samson entered his passcode and placed a hand on Bruce's back again to nudge him inside when the door opened. 

"Take a chair, I'll be back," he said quietly and Bruce didn't argue as he collapsed onto the nearest stool, focusing on his breathing. Samson gave him his space and wandered around his lab, doing nothing concrete by the looks of it but still not crowding Bruce in any way.

"You had a report?" Bruce asked in a tightly controlled voice after a minute and Samson, bless his soul, didn't comment on what he must have pieced together but instead quietly walked over and placed a file in front of Bruce. 

"Think it's okay?" Samson asked and Bruce knew the man well enough over the years to understand that he meant more than his report.

"I think I can work with it," Bruce replied and Samson huffed out a quiet laugh, walking around Bruce to give Bruce his space to work things out.

Bruce knew that he was cursed and that he could create miracles despite it. But even miracles came at a price, one that Bruce was thankful only meant space and silence at the moment.

If it wasn't always so small, well, nobody else had to know that, really.

\--------

Thor bit back a sigh as he watched his father argue with their prominent rival for the hundredth time of the season. It had become routine and ritual by now, for Odin to have a verbal spat with the giant looking Laufey, an ex-mob boss and now underground boxing team owner. It was usually centered around the same topic too : Thor's eligibility to fight in the men's ring.

"It's been four seasons and he still makes the same objections," Sif scoffed from beside him, her arms crossed across her chest and eyes narrowed in derision at Laufey, "No matter the irony of the situation, he -"

"It is the irony of the situation that makes him speak so, Sif," Thor cut her with a mildly weary voice, eyes still fixed on the two old men bickering across the parking lot, "You know what happened to Loki when he -- grief doesn't take long to translate into anger and anger over a lost son never really disappears."

"What happened to Loki was never  _your_ fault," Sif shook her head and looked at Thor, her eyes sharp and dark, "You didn't know about his truth then, and to hold that against you when it was Loki's own foolishness that led to his fate is nothing but madness."

"I don't say that it was my fault, Sif," Thor smiled a tad sadly at his best friend since childhood, ever since a time when he had been given a different name and had worn different clothes, "But I did have a part in that horror, and Laufey has none else to place blame on now."

"You are too generous in your excuse," Sif huffed, turning back to glare at Laufey, "It has been long enough, don't you think? At this pace, will there be a match this night or will we have to fill our victory cups with bouts of banter?"

"With charm as yours, we could win  _that_ cup with much ease," Thor quipped with a teasing grin and pretended to budge when she shoved his shoulder.

"Thor!" Odin hollered from across the lot and Thor turned to look his way, "Come now, we'll be late!"

" _Now_ he gets that," Sif muttered with a roll of her eyes and Thor snorted as he walked the distance with her by his side.

There was a lot to be said about Thor's life, and most of it would be as dramatic as his father's regales of a mythical battle during drunken stupors. Now a known fighter in the underground circles, he had once been a nurse with a wrong body and an ill fitted name. Odin had run a boxing group and Thor's brother Baldur had been his prize fighter. When a local mob fight had resulted in three bullets to Baldur's head and one son less to their family, Thor hadn't seen it anymore dangerous to hide who he truly was and wished to feel as. The expected scandal did occur, from great aunts to distant godparents, everybody had an opinion. But the final decision lay on three heads - Thor, Odin, and Frigga's. 

Frigga, Thor's mother, had been the first one to cross over to Thor's side and stand by him. Odin had relented after some heated fights and bitter spats, but the prospect of replacing one son with another had been an incentive to the aging man. Relentless efforts and strokes of good luck had given Thor what he had wanted.

Thor wasn't one to idly throw away miracles, and being given a chance to be reborn in the right body had been one he had held on with all his might. The job as a nurse was shredded even before he could show them his frame, and there weren't many places that would trust a man as Thor, with his father's reputation.

It had seemed a logical solution to take up Baldur's mantle then. 

As he entered the arena for the uncounted time of his life, Thor thought back to a dark haired, green eyed man who had wanted the same thing that Thor had now, but had chosen a tougher path. He remembered the miracle that Loki Laufeyson had once been denied, even as he had screamed for it from the clutches of the drug-lord he had gotten trapped with. Thor had been helpless back then, having watched a possible friend getting thrown away for a wrong decision taken under pressure and bitterness. He knew, Thor knew that Laufey blamed him for Loki's disappearance mostly because of the miracle Thor had been granted in strength and support.

It did little to assuage Thor's own guilt though. 

With a deep breath, Thor jogged up the distance to the ring, to prove his miracle's worth one more time.

\--------

Wanda had a lot of enemies in a lot of places. Her cellmate said that it was most likely due to her being known as a witch in the prison circles, and a bitch outside it. Wanda liked to think that it was because her luck had run out when her brother had gone missing. Or when her father had been found dead, with false evidence pointing her way as the murderer.

"Have you heard anything about him yet?" she asked the tall woman sitting across her, with no handcuffs curbing her freedom or uniform labeling her price.

"Not yet," Jennifer Walters, Wanda's lawyer and sole friend sighed, "Crystal said that she was tracking a sighting in Sokovia -"

"-but she isn't sure about it, yeah," Wanda rolled her eyes and breathed out, placing her cuffed hands on top of the table, "How's Viz?"

Jennifer shot her a disapproving look and Wanda shrugged. "I know, I know, he's The Ex and I should focus on my current problems, yes, Jen you've said it before," the Romani metal industry heiress shot a wry grin at her friend, "but he worries, you know that. And he's my friend. I'm allowed to ask about my friends, right?"

"What you're allowed and not is really not a question I want to answer, Ms. Maximoff," Jennifer raised an eyebrow but smirked and leaned forward a bit, "but yes, he's fine. Doing well as a new professor at Cal, actually. Thankfully, not dating anyone else."

"Don't be a cow," Wanda laughed and Jennifer rolled her eyes, "Tell me about you, what are you doing?

"Wanda"

"Any new poor goat we need to know about?"

"Wanda"

"How's Patsy?"

"Wanda," Jennifer said firmly, her eyes stern but also understanding, "We can't avoid talking about you if you ask about the entire world too, you know? This  _is_ a time allotted to discuss your case."

"And we discuss it every week," Wanda shot back, bitterness in her tone, before sighing wearily, "Jen, we discuss that every week. There's nothing new every week. You come, I ask you if you've found Pietro, you tell me know, we dance the same dance. It's the same thing, and then I go back to my cell, sit beside an actual murderer who likes mushroom soup and talks about it for an hour everyday. I sit with her for 18 hours every day and sleep above her for the rest of the hours. I pee in what looks like a toilet and eat what would have once been food if people had remembered to cook it. And then I wait for you to come the next week. You see a pattern here, Jen? We do this every week, and if I want to break that pattern today, if I want to talk about something new, then goddamn let me!"

The end came out as a hissed whisper and Wanda held fierce eye contact with her lawyer before breathing out and closing her eyes.

"Patsy's joined JJ actually," Jennifer said after a moment's silence and Wanda felt a small smile grace her face at the wry fondness in her friend's voice, "Apparently they're  _on_ this time, and you know how Patsy gets when she thinks she can make something work. Girl's not nicknamed a Hellcat without reason."

"Actually," Wanda looked up and grinned, "I think Rand called her that because she almost clawed his face off for fighting her on the last Super Bowl they disagreed on."

"Then he definitely deserved it and it suits her," Jennifer laughed, making Wanda believed that if she imagined hard enough this could be just another lunch meeting between then instead of a prison cell with her in dirty dull red prison jumpsuit and Jennifer in a professional work suit. Wanda wasn't a heiress without brains, no matter what the local press had loved to flaunt. She had learnt enough and was smart enough to know the situation she was in. The evidence was piled high against her and her only alibi was her missing brother, who would also be held falsely guilty if he reappeared anyway. It hadn't been a surprise if she thought about it hard, and she had the time to do so now, about how her father's ex business partner had planned it all perfectly. 

Django Maximoff and his wife Marya had adopted Wanda and her twin from an orphanage in Sokovia, raising them as the heirs to a mass empire. Wanda had been suspicious about her father's success a lot many times but it had never occurred to her to voice her opinion out loud. When Erik Lehnsherr, her father's partner, turned out to be Magnus, apparently her biological father and a renowned terrorist, the Maximoffs suffered the worst storm of press and stock drop. It was then that they had been struck by Sebastian Shaw, Django's ex partner and estranged friend. Her mother had died when she was a teen and Wanda had no other family to turn to when she was framed as the murderer of her father. 

Wanda knew that they were fighting for a miracle, because just that would make it possible for her to see the light of a free day.

Unfortunately, she knew that even adopted heiresses ran out of miracles, and hers seemed to have died with her father.

\----------

The rooms were always cold during underwear shoots. Steve didn't know how it was an unspoken rule across brands and photographers, but he had been through them all and he knew that it was a fact. It always felt like standing in ice during these shoots.

"When I said  _intense_ I didn't mean  _murder_ , kid," the photographer drawled from behind the camera and Steve schooled his face to look less like he would like to actually show the guy something  _intense_. With his fists. He flexed his muscles, tilted his jaw, placed his hands provocatively over the elastic of the underwear and basically tried to send a  _fuck me_ message through his posture while every atom of his body screamed  _fuck you_ instead.

If there was one thing Steve had never asked for when he had joined  _Captain America_ as the lead role, it was the photoshoots that came with it or because of it. What had started out as a fictional drama series, a lucky break for a struggling artist in Brooklyn, had grown into a cult symbol of sorts and made Steve into a symbol of his own. He heard his own name less and his character's name more these days, and while Bucky would laugh at his complaints, Bucky wasn't the one who went back to a lonely home with an unsatisfied feeling everyday. No, Bucky had gone on to become a soldier instead of acting as one, and now had a job he was proud of with a family who was proud of him for it. The Barnes' family had been Steve's lifeline when his mother had died and he loved them with his life, but he knew that he would never be Bucky, who got the entire package of having a family to call his own. When he had told him this once, the man had stared at Steve with his best dumbfounded expression and had clapped him over the shoulder telling him to join him on a double date. 

Steve had never told him that again.

Being a famous television star had its perks, something Steve knew came in green notes and privileged access to places Bucky couldn't get to. He knew that, and accepted that as a guilty pleasure, especially when he joined Arnie to gay bars in secret, or when he could pay an exclusive agent to keep his sexuality talks off the media. Peggy knew that, of course she did, and she had been his strongest support after Bucky, but it did less to pull out Steve's innate fears of rejection and ridicule. He championed LGBTQ+ causes, wore the pride pins, was well loved by the community and such, but something hidden in him stopped him from simply coming out and embracing his bisexuality without hesitance in the public eye. The word 'ally' mocked him during nights he spent watching his own interviews, the phrase  _Captain America_ taunted him on days he watched people laugh without fear of being judged, and the term  _man of the masses_ haunted him when he imagined a public backlash. 

When the shoot ended and Steve wore a robe to hide no unseen nudity, he still felt the cold from the room in his bones, and wondered if it was a metaphor for something else - living in an ice-box, trapped in frosted transparency. He waved off the offered refreshments and went back to his trailer, demanding privacy from the few people who would probably respect that. Locking the door shut, he sat down hard on the couch in his trailer and shoved his head into his hands.

"It's a miracle," he repeated to himself, a mantra that had carried over the years, "It's a miracle to live this. It's a miracle to be known. It's a miracle to have the power to help. It's a miracle to be this."

It was funny how the words resounding in the silence of the trailer sounded false to his own ears. It was funny as Steve Rogers, the famed  _Captain America_ of Marvel Studios, felt bullied by his own demons.

Steve remembered a quote from an old family doctor who had a fondness to prescribe his patients to find the cure to their illness in their hearts. Dr. Erskine had once, in a shabby Brooklyn apartment, looked Steve in the eye and told him the coldest fact of life. Something that still rang true for the man who had it all. Something that told Steve he would never defeat his shame till he defeated his demons.

_No miracle or science made a man respect himself._

\-----------

Tony Stark woke up with a gasp in a cold damp cave two weeks after his father's plaque had met his eye last and felt a heavy weight pressing his chest down, heart threatening to fail. Seven other strangers woke up around the work with their own hearts in their throats.

Their stories began in his cave. His story came alive in their lives.

It was an unasked miracle. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you find this fic interesting and would like to read more of Stony goodness with a heavy dash of Avengers, please do visit Stony Trumps Hate at @stonytrumpshate on Tumblr and learn more about it!
> 
> Also, feedback please!


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